


The Two Million Dollar Question (What to do in New York When You are Dead)

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: AU where Marcus kills John Wick during JW1, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically JW1 on a budget, Crack Treated Seriously, Drugs are bad Iosef, Gen, Some descriptions of violence and gore, but not really, gen but John/Marcus preslash if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: “Don’t try me, punk.”“And how long have you had that in the bank?” John says, hand hovering over his keys still in the door.“I don’t know,” Marcus shrugs. “I was watchingGoodfellaslast night.”Small (read: ever indulgent) divergent AU of JW1, wherein Marcus misquotes movies; John is a bit annoyed; Charlie goes grave digging; and Iosef still gets what’s coming.Or: Marcus kills John Wick so he can make Iosef Tarasov’s life miserable without grave (haha!) consequences. Sometimes it’s good to remind a living man that there are fates worse than death. And who better to dole out that reminder than the Bogeyman himself?





	The Two Million Dollar Question (What to do in New York When You are Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> Considering that it takes Viggo about three quarters of the first movie to figure out that Marcus is breaking the contract something fierce, this is probably within the realm of possibility.

_”You’ll look after him for me, won’t you? Make sure he doesn’t go too much off the deep end.” _

_A little reluctantly, Marcus offers his hand when Helen reaches out for him. He smoothes his thumb over her knuckles and tries to ignore the veins protruding from her thinning, sickly skin. “Sure, I’ll stock up on some dog chow too while I’m at it.” _

_Helen gives him a long look. “Marcus, I mean it.” _

_“Honey, I’m in the deep end myself.” Marcus tells her the truth. “What makes you think he’ll listen to anything I say?” _

_“Because,” Helen trains her gaze on a slight bulge under Marcus’s jacket. “You carry a gun. I’m sure you can manage something.” _

Marcus hears through the grapevine that some idiot stole John’s prized ‘69 Mustang and strangled John’s new puppy. His first though is: _what an idiot asshole_, and his second thought is _holy fucking shit, I’m not on the right continent for this._

By the time he makes it back to New York, Viggo Tarasov is sitting on his stoop and that’s never a good sign. 

“Where were you?” Viggo asks. “I’ve been waiting.” 

“You must be desperate,” Marcus says. He hauls his suitcase through the front door and Viggo follows him in without further preamble. Usually, Marcus would fight him on this, but he’s too tired, and too jetlagged to remind a grown man about the basic tenets of politeness. 

Marcus goes and fetches himself a glass of lemonade and pointedly doesn’t offer Viggo anything and the man doesn’t ask. Viggo does, however, sit down and sigh, until Marcus figures the only way to kick him out of the apartment is to get this whole damn thing over with. 

So he goes for broke: “Why the hell do you look like you’ve strangled John Wick’s dog?” 

Viggo almost looks constipated. “Oh, so you have heard about that.” 

“Yeah, I have, because when an idiot does something that monumentally stupid,” Marcus starts and trails off. “Fuck’s sake, Viggo.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Viggo says, pointedly not looking at him. “But it was my son. And as a result of that, forty of my best men are dead.” 

Marcus looks down at his lemonade, gives up on it for something stronger. From his cabinet, he selects vermouth and tips some into a tumbler with ice. Any other circumstance, Viggo probably would be having a run at him for liking a girly drink. Still, Marcus has to concede that forty isn’t exactly a small number. Maybe the guy is still in shock. 

“Want some?” 

Viggo looks so relieved he’s practically salivating with it. “Please.” 

Marcus fetches another tumbler, fills it with ice and then vermouth. He sets it down in front of Viggo. “Don’t dick me around and tell me what you want, all right?” 

“Would you kill John Wick for two million dollars?” 

Two million isn’t a small number either. Marcus turns it over in his head. “By all rights, your kid should be dead by now.” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Viggo glares miserably into his drink. 

“You’ve lost forty men. How’s he?” 

Viggo shrugs. “He probably has a limp.” 

“A limp.” Marcus fights the urge to laugh. “And you’re only offering me an even two. You’re fucking cheap.” 

“Well, it’s not like I’m asking you to shank him in the ribs. I only want you to do what you do best.” 

Marcus glances at the clock mounted above his television. “Can I do it tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow.” Viggo looks pained, but he also knows that Marcus has a point. If he can’t keep his own kid safe through one night, then the whole of the _bratva_ is a fucking joke. “First thing tomorrow?” 

“Fine,” Marcus downs his drink and gestures for Viggo to do the same. “Now get out of my house.” 

Charlie picks up on the fourth ring, which is uncharacteristically slow for him. Moving dead weight is traditionally a fast-moving business, but Marcus supposes that the forty dead bodies have to disappear somehow. “Marcus, I thought you were in Chile.” 

Marcus cuts to the chase. Alone again, he shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. After that, Marcus reaches for the remote. “I was. I’m not now. I need a favor.” 

“We’re stretched a bit thin at the present,” Charlie says, unhappily. “John’s kind of.” 

“Yeah, I know. I said a favor, not a reservation. It might solve your John problem. But you’re not gonna like it.”

“You’re right,” Charlie says, “I don’t like it. Do you know how much _work_ that makes for me and the guys? You nuts?” 

“I’m improvising,” Marcus returns, deciding not to let the guy’s cynicism get to him. “Don’t see anyone doing any better. Admit it, unless you’re set to bury the whole city of New York?” 

Charlie heaves a sigh, “When do you want it?” 

“First thing tomorrow,” Marcus says, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to bed.” 

At nine-thirty sharp the next morning, Marcus is lying in wait outside of John’s house and sticks a Beretta into the small of the man’s back when he turns his back to lock up. Marcus is relieved to see that aside the limp, John mostly looks fine. He does, however, look like he is a bit out of practice, which means Marcus’s approach is not completely and utterly suicidal. 

“Don’t try me, punk.” He hadn’t meant to say anything, but about half of Marcus’s brain is still catching up from lack of sleep. 

“And how long have you had that in the bank?” John says, hand hovering over his keys still in the door. 

“I don’t know,” Marcus shrugs. “I was watching _Goodfellas_ last night.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not _Goodfellas_.” John twists around his neck to look at him over his shoulder. “The hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“I’m here to kill you,” Marcus says plainly. “Do you want to go inside and talk about it?” 

“Not really.” John says, which is not a surprise. “Let me go, Marcus. You don’t know what happened. What the Tarasov brat did to _Daisy_ and.” He shakes himself. “I have to do this.” 

Marcus uncocks the safety and John stiffens. “I know what happened. I also know you killed forty men last night.” 

“If you know that, then you know I don’t mind it being forty-one,” John’s shoulders ripple with his breathing. “Do you really want to do this?” 

“I’d really like to go inside and talk about this,” Marcus says. “I have a plan.” 

The inside of John’s house is bloodless and clean in the sense that there aren’t any spare body parts splattered about, but there is no mistaking that something has happened. The sofas are upturned, there are bullet holes riddling the nice leather upholstery and it looks like somebody had their head bashed in against the wall. The coffee table that Marcus had purchased for the Wicks as a wedding present is now, a little more than a pile of glass. 

“I’m never buying you anything nice again.” 

John glares at him. “I didn’t go looking for them. They ambushed me again in my home. Don’t you get it? Viggo’s people are out to get me. I’m not about to take this lying down, Marcus. I’m _not_.” 

“Viggo’s people are like rats off a sinking ship,” Marcus corrects him. “They’re coming at you because they’re scared. Not because they want to. Don’t give them that much credit, they don’t deserve it.” 

The kid has always looked, to Marcus, like someone invincible. Like a bare swathe of a live black shadow, here one second, and gone the next. He doesn’t look like that now, not even close. 

Somehow, John deflates and Marcus goes to him and catches what he can of the very human weight. John says, “_Fuck_.” 

Marcus doesn’t say anything. Then he feels John’s breathing calm, and it’s only then that he steps away. “I’m sorry about Daisy, John.” 

“If I ever get my hands on that swine little son of a bitch,” John starts, heating up again. 

“So maybe you can,” Marcus says. “You just won’t get to torture him the way you like. But I went to a workshop once. Did you know a man can’t die from lack of sleep?” 

“What?” 

A knock on the door sounds, and Marcus goes to get it. It’s Charlie and a guy, the latter with a large body bag slung over his shoulder. They both don’t look happy. 

“We tried the best we can,” Charlie says, gesturing. “Still doesn’t look right.” 

“A few bruises will fix that,” Marcus says. They all stand around the body, looking dead and not entirely out of place in the mess that is John’s living room. “Maybe.” 

“You want to beat up on a dead body,” John says. “Really think that’ll work?” 

“I’ll probably have to break the jaw,” Marcus nudges the corpse’s jaw with his shoe. “That doesn't look right even if you squint.” 

“You want Viggo to buy that you took me on in hand to hand combat.” John’s voice is so dry, it’s nearly like he’s scraping against sandpaper. “Yeah, right.” 

“Easy,” Marcus looks at him. “So maybe I shoot you through the jaw.” He clears the Beretta from its holster and presses the barrel snug against the crook of John’s neck angling upwards. The man is so still, and Marcus is pretty sure neither Charlie nor his buddy are breathing. 

“And there you have it,” Marcus says to the dead quiet of the room. “John Wick is dead.” 

Later, John bleeds. He bleeds methodically over his kitchen sink into a chipped coffee mug. If he is in any immediate pain, Marcus can’t tell. Assassins generally have to be very good with pain, anyway. 

“Why are you doing this for me?” 

“Two million bucks,” Marcus says. 

“I can’t believe you sold me out for two million bucks,” John makes a slightly displeased noise in his throat. 

“It wasn’t just that,” Marcus says after a minute. “Helen asked me to keep you out of the deep end.” 

John’s expression goes dark for a very long moment. “Of course she did.” 

“And...did he say anything?” Viggo says, keeping his eyes on the fresh corpse with a gaping hole through its jaw. “Last words, that type of thing? Was he surprised it was you?” 

Marcus shrugs. “Not really. John just said he didn’t want to disappoint his wife.” 

John Wick dies, and New York is silent. There is no body to bury because Viggo had it burnt the moment it’d been carried out of the house as if he was afraid it'd suddenly come back to life. Soon after that, Marcus is suddenly in great demand, garnering exclusive contracts from everywhere. He even gets a call from the Camorra in Italy, which he’d refused to take. He’d never worked well with them. 

Winston invites him up to the penthouse for a drink, and they share nice Speyside Scotch looking down at the ants crawling along Fifth Avenue. 

“How does it feel?” Winston says. “To be the slayer of the Bogeyman?” 

“I’m a monster too,” Marcus responds. “I don’t feel anything.” 

“I don’t think he’s dead,” Winston looks at him keenly. “What did the two of you pull?” 

Three can keep a secret if two are dead. Marcus looks at him, too. “The dead are never dead, Winston; you of all people should know that.” 

“You didn’t fucking kill John Wick,” are the first words out of Iosef Tarasov’s mouth and if he hadn’t been a fucking dog murderer, Marcus might have started to feel a bit sorry for the kid. “I don’t know what you _fucking _ did, but.” 

“Slow down, okay? You look like you’re about to faint.” Marcus glances down the street. It doesn’t seem that Iosef has come with his usual barrage of cronies, which means he really must be losing it. 

“I _see_ him everywhere. In Moscow! In Prague! Even fucking right here in New York! He was out at the airport! What the _fuck_.” 

Marcus looks at the kid clutching the stair rail. “Are you still taking drugs?” 

“_What_?” 

“I’m just saying, maybe it’s worth getting your supply checked,” Marcus says. 

Suddenly, Iosef’s face turns even more ashen white than before. “He’s in your house!” 

Marcus turns to look. John is indeed leaning against the end of his corridor just staring into nowhere. That gaze would have been disconcerting enough on the person of a living man, but on a dead man its effect is possibly tenfold. “I don’t see anything.” 

“He’s right there,” Iosef says, practically sweating bullets. “I swear to you he’s.”

Marcus sees the kid reaching and reacts, clamping his fingers tight around Iosef’s wrist until the kid yelps. “You’re gonna be dead if you shoot up my house. Not even your old man’s going to save you from that one.” 

Iosef swallows hard. 

“Go home, sober up,” Marcus says, waving him away from the stoop. “Drugs are bad for you, anyway.” 

“We can’t keep this up forever,” John says. “At some point I’ll get tired of this.” 

“Tired of screwing around with Iosef Tarasov?” Marcus deadpans. “Really. Besides, you’ve been doing all right so far.” 

John snorts, “It’s expensive, you know, being dead.” 

“Good thing for you, I make good dough,” Marcus says. “Although the fucking Italians do keep calling me.” 

“Don’t take their call,” John tells him, making a face. “They’re terrible to work for.” 

“Yeah, I could have figured that out by myself,” Marcus says. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

**Author's Note:**

> "Don't try me, punk." is not from from _Goodfellas_. It is from my favorite bad move of all time _Police Academy 4_.


End file.
